


When I Think About You

by ilookedback



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: (a little bit), F/M, Oh also, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Takes place post-series, a little bit of hurt/comfort, aaaalso, alcohol consumption, also, nowhere near the level on the actual show, probably contains too many adjectives, soft Javi, some depiction of gun violence, written in second person but no use of y/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: He’s handsome. It will almost be a shame if the threatening letters do turn out to be nothing because it will mean the hours you’ve spent distracted from your work this week, ignoring the papers on your desk to stare through the glass wall of your office at the dark hair curling at the nape of his neck, have truly been a waste and you’ll feel a little guilty about that. Your fingers curl against the wood, manicured fingernails digging lightly into your palms as you think about touching the warm skin you’ve been staring at. What would he smell like, if you could press your face to his neck and breathe him in?On the other side of the glass, he glances up from his book, looks up and down the hallway, and then, unexpectedly, he turns to look over his shoulder at you, giving a little nod when he catches you staring. You nod back automatically, to be polite, and swiftly look back down at your desk, feeling your cheeks heat at being caught.(Or, a bodyguard!Javi fic that includes a very tiny bit of plot/violence but mostly, you know. What's in the tags.)
Relationships: Javier Peña/Original Female Character(s), Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 14
Kudos: 132





	When I Think About You

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was entirely inspired by [this post](https://pedropascalito.tumblr.com/post/620931862310895616/are-there-any-javi-pe%C3%B1a-stories-where-he-becomes-a) by pedropascalito on Tumblr. The Javi in this fic is post-series, taking a break from the DEA, taking on a little freelance bodyguard work that I imagine a buddy of his refers him for and he's mostly doing as a favor. He's maybe a little softer and more relaxed and smoking and drinking a little less, with the DEA work behind him.
> 
> Title is from the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself," of course. This is my first time writing a fic in the second person so I hope it reads smoothly!

It had seemed completely over the top, at first, the whole bodyguard thing. Your father was running for the state senate, not _president_. But Texas was populated by gun owners and a few of them had been upset enough by a recent campaign speech to send threatening letters. Your dad’s campaign manager wouldn’t let you see what they said but it was clear they were targeting you and were nasty enough they’d left him shaken.

So now here you were. With this man sitting outside the door to your office. He’s not what you’d expected, not a meathead like the boys you’d known in high school who’d gone on to become cops. He’s a little older, for one thing, a few years past 40. And he doesn’t seem overly worried about the threat either. He’s reading a book, glancing up every so often to scan the hallway before returning to the pages, settled in his chair looking relaxed as anything. Anyone would think he was a client waiting for a meeting, to see him there, at least unless they got close enough to spot the shoulder holster under his leather jacket.

The jacket is a little over the top, too, you think to yourself. It’s June and it’ll be 90 degrees outside when you leave the office and you know he’ll keep it on despite the heat and it’s—it’s _dumb_ , but he looks so damn cool, and maybe… It’s possible you’re getting a little starry-eyed for him.

He’s handsome. It will almost be a shame if the threatening letters do turn out to be nothing because it will mean the hours you’ve spent distracted from your work this week, ignoring the papers on your desk to stare through the glass wall of your office at the dark hair curling at the nape of his neck, have truly been a waste and you’ll feel a little guilty about that. Your fingers curl against the wood, manicured fingernails digging lightly into your palms as you think about touching the warm skin you’ve been staring at. What would he smell like, if you could press your face to his neck and breathe him in?

On the other side of the glass, he glances up from his book, looks up and down the hallway, and then, unexpectedly, he turns to look over his shoulder at you, giving a little nod when he catches you staring. You nod back automatically, to be polite, and swiftly look back down at your desk, feeling your cheeks heat at being caught.

It’s almost five o’clock, you realize. He was probably checking to see if you’re wrapping up for the day. You stare down at your to-do list, which has precisely two items crossed off so far, and at the bottom you add, _leave early_ , and then cross that off just for the satisfaction of it. It’s 4:45 on a Friday afternoon and you know you’ll still be one of the last to leave the office. You make a silent vow to be focused and productive next week to make up for this one and you gather up your purse and head out the door. He nods at you again and walks a few paces ahead down the hallway so he can check the stairwell before you go down it. Putting his body between you and any sign of trouble.

He’s a silent one, this Mr. Peña. He doesn’t want you calling him that; he’d made a pained expression the first time and corrected you— _it’s Javier, Javi if you’re feeling friendly_ —but you need to overcorrect to pull yourself out of the lust spiral you’ve been falling into, so you’re trying to think of him in professional terms, at least in the privacy of your own thoughts. He’s reserved with his words, but he makes up for it with an expressive face, all deep frowns when he’s concerned or annoyed, squinting eyes when he’s concentrating. The occasional dimpled smile when he’s amused. You’ve only gotten to see that one a few times, and it always feels like a benediction, the way it spreads a warm, happy feeling right through you.

And Jesus. If that isn’t a sign you need something even more formal than _Mr._ to call him.

You try it out when he holds the door for you out onto the street downstairs. “Thank you, sir,” you offer, and his head whips down to stare at you. It’s a new expression, one you haven’t catalogued before from him, but before you can quite interpret his widened eyes, he’s chuckling and glancing away again.

“Yes _ma’am_ ,” he says, and the way he emphasizes it, with a bit more drawl than his natural accent holds, means he’s teasing you, but you can’t quite find it in yourself to mind. The attempt at formality has clearly backfired.

A wall of heat hits you as you step onto the sidewalk. You’ll be grateful to get home to your air conditioned house and an ice cold drink. Something stronger than a beer, tonight. There’s already a bead of sweat dripping down the back of Javier’s neck, disappearing into the collar of his too-hot jacket. You think vaguely about licking it off of him and decide you’ll have a margarita when you get home. You’ll get a little drunk and you’ll let yourself think about licking the sweat off his collarbone when you taste the salt rim of your drink and you’ll allow yourself one night—or the whole weekend, maybe, if you must—to thoroughly indulge in fantasizing about him. And then by Monday you’ll have gotten it out of your system and you can return to the world a fully functioning and productive grown woman, capable of maintaining professional boundaries and fulfilling to-do lists. It feels like a good plan.

And then everything goes wrong.

The police precinct is chilled from air conditioning and you pull your lightweight sweater tighter around you, but it’s not until Javier’s hand closes around your wrist that you realize your shaking has nothing to do with the temperature. He’s talking to the detective, giving his statement, but he’s rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. Soothing. You take a deep, unsteady breath and feel the adrenaline in your body start to wane.

“Ma’am?” The detective has a real accent, ten times stronger than the one Javier had put on earlier. He gentles his voice with you, no longer the man-to-man conversation he’d been having with Javi. “Can you tell me, in your own words, what happened?”

You’re not sure why you need to repeat the story when Javier’s already run through it twice, first with the responding officers and now with this detective. You weren’t paying attention either time, too dumbstruck with fear and adrenaline to listen to anything more than the timbre of his voice, but he’s a professional so you’re sure he got everything right. You glance at him and he slips his hand down a few inches to entwine his fingers with yours and gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

You stumble through your statement, describing how the gunfire had come seemingly from nowhere, how the next thing you knew Javier had pushed you to the ground. You look down at the knees of your trousers. The weave of the fabric is snagged, all roughened up by the concrete sidewalk, and now that you’re thinking about it you realize your knees are sore from hitting the ground. Stupidly, it makes you choke up. Not because it’s that painful, but the physical reminder of what happened means you can’t pretend it was all just a nightmare. Somebody really tried to _kill_ you. This time you squeeze Javier’s hand, gathering the strength to continue, working to keep the waver out of your voice. You tell the detective how Javi had pulled out his own gun and returned fire, how he’d _hit_ the gunman. There was a lot of blood in the street, but he’d shot him in the shoulder so he was still alive— _was_ he still alive? You ask them, and the detective nods, and Javier lets out a breath that might mean—you hope it means he’s relieved. That he didn’t kill the man.

Javier had restrained the gunman with a ziptie he’d pulled out of his jacket pocket—bizarre, you think to yourself, that all this time you’d been thinking about the jacket you’d never considered what hidden secrets it might contain. That for all his relaxed demeanor he’d come fully prepared for the task at hand. That his instincts had been immediate, to push you down and shield you with his body and locate the source of the gunshot and fire back. All while you’d still been working out what the hell was _happening_.

The detective asks you a few more questions that you answer in a daze and he gives you his card in case you need to be in touch, and Javier drives you home.

For the past week, he’s picked you up in the morning and dropped you off at night, but this time he parks and follows you inside. He locks the door behind the two of you as you kick off your shoes and head straight to the liquor cabinet in your kitchen to open the bottle of tequila. You don’t bother mixing a drink, just pour yourself a shot and down it, savoring the warmth burning its way down your throat. You’re pouring a second shot when his hand settles over yours.

“Hey,” he says. “Take it easy.” You stare at his hand, then up at his face, incredulous.

“I almost _died_ ,” you remind him. “You almost died! How are you so calm?”

“I, uh. I’ve seen a lot worse than that, I guess.”

That’s fucked up, you think.

“That’s fucked up,” you tell him.

His eyes go a little wide again, surprised, and then he laughs. “Yeah, it is. You don’t know the half of it.”

“I don’t want to know the half of it.” You don’t want to think about guns, or blood, or _worse than that_ , ever again. Certainly not tonight.

He shakes his head, agreeing not to tell you, and then he furrows his brow. “Alcohol doesn’t really… help that much, in the long term.”

“How about the short term?”

He concedes that point with a tilt of his head and you take the second shot of tequila, but after that you cap the bottle and put it away, choosing to take his voice of experience and expertise at face value. He’s leaning one hip against the counter, watching you. You’re not sure what to do. Normally, if you had just gotten home on your own, you’d be putting together dinner, but after the events of this afternoon you’ve lost your appetite. You might go to bed but you don’t want him to leave.

Finally, he reaches toward you, hovering a hand over your hip. “C’mere,” he says, and he barely has to touch you to urge you into his arms. You wrap your arms around his back, under his jacket, burying your face in his shoulder, and he hugs you tightly. You feel his head tilt to fit against yours, his nose brushing against your hair. “This helps more,” he whispers. You feel the warmth radiating off of him and the firm grip of his arms around you and you believe him.

You finally get to learn what he smells like close up, inhaling his scent where you’ve got your face pressed against him. It’s leather and faded laundry detergent and a hint of tobacco. And under it, the salt tang of sweat on his clean skin. You forgive yourself for this, later, because you’ve just survived a near-death experience and you’re feeling a slight buzz from two shots of liquor on an empty stomach, and you’re only human. If you were in your right mind you’d probably hold back but as it is, you work purely on instinct. You tuck your face against his neck, nosing into the open collar of his shirt, and you let your tongue taste him.

He inhales sharply—you’ve surprised him again, you think—and his arms tighten around you for a second before they’re loosening and he’s tugging you away, not far, but far enough your eyes can meet. You miss his skin already. You want your mouth on him again. He’s looking at you with hooded eyes.

“This isn’t part of my job description,” he says. It’s a joke, but there’s a hint of reluctant warning there. Reminding you that you’re crossing the line you’ve been telling yourself all week you’ll maintain. But the you of a week ago—the you of three hours ago—was a fool for thinking any kind of professional boundary was worth more than the satisfaction of tasting Javier’s skin.

“I’m revising your contract,” you tell him. He huffs out a laugh and hesitates for another moment. You get the sense he’s giving you time to change your mind and you’re not interested. You close the distance between the two of you and watch his smile soften.

“Okay, mijita,” he murmurs, leaning in to nudge his nose against yours, hovering his mouth over your lips. “You’re the boss,” he says, and kisses you.

Despite his words, he’s the one who takes control, turning to box you in with your back against the counter. You clutch at the thin fabric of his shirt along his waist, tilting your mouth to meet his, and soon you feel his thigh nudging your legs apart, pressing against your core. You can’t help the whimper that escapes you, high-pitched at the back of your throat, and he hums a gratified response.

“Good?” he murmurs. You rock your hips, riding your clit over his thigh, and break your mouth away to drag your lips down his neck, dipping your tongue along the line of his collarbone like you’ve been wanting, tasting his skin. He pulls the cardigan sweater off your shoulders, depositing it onto the countertop behind you, and gets his hand under your shirt, pressed warm and broad against your bare back. He tilts his head and brushes your hair back to press a kiss just under your ear, making you shiver. His voice has gone so low it’s like a growl when he speaks. “I bet you could come just like this, couldn’t you? Just from grinding yourself on my leg. Look how close you are already.”

You can’t see what he sees but you can feel the flush in your cheeks, the racing of your heart, how your skin is going hypersensitive, like somehow every nerve ending is connected to receptors of pure pleasure every time he touches you. When he drags his mouth lower and kisses the sensitive skin along the side of your neck, you swear you feel it _tingle_.

He’s right that you could come from this. But you don’t want to. You can feel his long fingers running up and down your spine. And his cock pressed hard against your hip. And you want more. You are so eager for him.

“I want—” you start, cutting off with a gasp when he nips lightly at the base of your neck. “ _Oh_ , Javi, I—I want you inside me.”

He does growl, then, and he pulls away from you—you nearly keen at the loss but then he’s pulling you with him to abandon the kitchen for your bedroom.

He makes swift work of your shirt, nimbly undoing the buttons and sliding it off your shoulders. By some work of providence, his shirt is fastened with snaps so you don’t need much command over your trembling fingers to get it open. He shrugs off the jacket, finally, and you take a small step back to let him unbuckle his holster and set it carefully aside.

It’s funny, the details you notice. He’s been working with you all week, staying close but distant, and that fucking jacket has been hiding too much of him. Now that he’s in his short sleeves you discover the beauty of his biceps for the first time. It’s no surprise that he’s strong but the way the fabric strains over the golden tanned skin of his arms feels like a revelation nonetheless. You trail your fingers lightly over the firm muscle, the silky, delicate skin of the inside of his arm. He’s a study in contrasts, all hard and soft at once. Quiet yet commanding. Gentle and deadly.

You’ve gone quiet, contemplating him, and he draws your attention back by murmuring your name. Your eyes snap back to his face.

“You okay?” he asks. You nod, reassuring him.

“I just was thinking,” you confess, “I’ve been watching you all week and I never realized you had such nice arms.”

He smirks and under your fingers you feel him flex subtly, pleased by the compliment.

“Well,” he says, drawing you back into his arms, “I’ve been watching _you_ all week and I never got to see this pretty lace bra. So I guess we’re even.”

The bra is not remotely the point, as evidenced by how quickly he unhooks it and pulls it off of you, tossing it carelessly aside. He runs his hands from your waist up your sides, hooking his thumbs under your breasts like he’s framing them, and he ducks his head down to suck your right nipple into his mouth. Pleasure jolts through you, like a current of electricity sparked by his tongue and pulsing down through your belly, making you ache for him.

He moves on to your other breast, leaving you breathless as you scrabble to unfasten the clasp on your pants, suddenly desperate to get them off so you can bare yourself to him. So he can touch you everywhere. They drop to the floor and he’s already moving his hands to pull your underwear down your thighs. You brace one hand on his shoulder and shimmy out of them.

He straightens and pulls you flush against him, kissing you again. It makes you shiver, feeling your breasts pressed against his broad, bare chest while your thighs rub against the well-worn fabric of his jeans. He slides one hand down over your ass and squeezes lightly, clutching you to him so he can grind his hips against yours.

You’ve gone so wet for him, so quickly.

You pivot, pulling him towards the bed, and climb onto it, laying back and waiting for him to come to you. But he holds back, standing at the foot of the bed and watching you. His eyes drift lazily down your body, making you blush and press your legs together, overwhelmed by his attentive gaze. Realizing, suddenly, that you are stark naked while he’s still mostly clothed.

He shifts from one foot to the other, toeing off his shoes, and kneels on the bed, still out of reach. He’s moving slowly, like he wants to take his time with you. You wonder what it would take to make him lose control, not even make it to the bedroom, to fuck you against the wall, fast and rough and untethered. The thought of it makes you squirm a little, clenching your thigh muscles again.

There’s no way he can read your thoughts but his smile goes dirty and teasing and his hands land on your ankles, pulling them gently apart. “Don’t be shy, honey. Let me see you.”

He runs his hands up your legs, coming to rest on your knees, and it’s really not painful but he must spot some flicker of discomfort on your face because he stops, narrowing his eyes in a frown. He pulls his hands back down an inch. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing, just. I think I scraped them up a bit when we hit the ground, earlier,” you tell him, gesturing to your legs. It flashes through your mind, the feeling of being pressed against the hot sidewalk. You run your palms over the soft coverlet under you, willing away the memory of the rough pavement.

Javier looks again at your knees, examining them for injury. “You should’ve said something. You need ice?”

“No, it’s really not—it’s fine. I’m fine.”

He tilts his head, watching your face like he’s deciding whether you’re telling the truth, and then he leans down and softly kisses one knee and then the other. It’s so sweet it makes your heart ache, a little. “Afterwards,” he murmurs, not lifting away but shifting his mouth to kiss his way up the inside of your thigh, “I’m getting you some ice.”

“Okay,” you breathe, and you spread your legs to make room for him and let him get his mouth on you.

He’s a tease. His talented tongue nearly brings you to orgasm, over and over, but each time he backs off, moving to skim over your hipbone or nip lightly at your belly, distracting your body to bring you back down just so he can work you up again. He leaves you breathless and trembling, aching for more than the two fingers he is working slowly inside you. At some point, you convince him to discard his shirt so you can get your hands on his skin. The last time he leaves you wanting, you dig your fingernails into his shoulder, hard enough to make him hiss, muscles twitching under your hand. He reaches up blindly with his free hand, lacing his fingers with yours, and presses your hand against the bed.

“Please,” you beg. He presses his nose against your clit, flicking his tongue too lightly over your cunt. “Please?” he repeats. As though he doesn’t know what you’re asking for. You kick your leg a little, impatiently, digging your toes into his side.

“ _Please_ let me come,” you plead. Desperate now. He hesitates and you think he’s going to deny you again but finally he rocks his fingers into you, hard, picking up the pace, and closes his mouth over your clit, flicking his tongue over it steadily, and you can’t contain the shriek that rips from your lungs as he finally brings you over the edge. He groans as you clench around his fingers, coming hard after the long build-up, and he doesn’t pull away until you’ve stopped fluttering with tremors, until you shift your hips to move your sensitive clit away from his mouth.

All you can do for a minute is lie there, catching your breath. You watch as he sits up, kneeling between your legs, and pulls his wallet out of his pocket to retrieve a condom from it. It makes you laugh. Of course the man who came to work with zip ties in his jacket pocket would be prepared for all occasions.

He looks at your face, raises an eyebrow, and you shake your head, still smiling. You’re all blissed out, feeling languid and pleased, and the smile on your face probably looks goofy but it makes him smile too and he leans down to kiss you. His face is still wet from eating you out, but you let him anyway, content to taste yourself on his lips. You run your hands along his ribs, move lower to rub the back of your hand over his soft belly, and he sighs against your mouth. He turns his head to the side, kissing down your jawline, and you feel his breath stutter when you slide your hand into his pants.

“You gonna let me fuck you now?” he asks. His voice is rough, like he’d been drinking whiskey instead of consuming _you_ , but he asks it softly, makes the question sound sweet.

“I would’ve let you fuck me half an hour ago,” you chide. The long wait for your orgasm is forgiven but not forgotten. Part of you wants to tease him back, make him wait for his own, but you don’t really have the energy or the desire for that right now. You wrap your fingers around his cock, feel the heat of his hard length, and give it a gentle tug. He groans into your neck and bites the flesh there, bringing a light sting that he soothes over with his tongue.

He sits back on his heels, pulling his jeans down his thighs to roll the condom onto his cock. He looks so good like this, dark hair falling out of place, cheeks flushed and eyes dark with desire, broad shoulders and chest all bare on display, and his pretty cock rising up from the dark thatch of hair trailing down from his stomach. You think maybe you do want to blow him right now after all, but before you can make a move he’s already lowering himself back down to brace over you, nudging your thighs to open wider so he can settle in, and you feel him start to push inside you and your eyes fall shut, savoring the way he fills you up.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says with feeling. “You feel so good.”

He’s thick inside you but you’re so wet it’s an easy glide as he starts to thrust, and the sensation as he drags along the walls of your cunt makes you gasp and swear breathlessly. You reach up to touch him, sliding your hand over his shoulder to the back of his neck, digging your fingers into the thick hair curling there. He groans and his head falls forward, hot breath hitting your shoulder. When you scratch your nails against his scalp you feel his mouth go slack against your skin, an open-mouthed kiss gone helpless to your ministrations, and then he growls quietly and shifts back to pull your right leg up higher as he braces himself to fuck you harder. You feel the stretch in your thigh, first, but the slight twinge of aching muscle is obliterated when his new angle hits something inside you that sparks a wave of pure pleasure through your whole body.

Your eyes fly open wide, surprised. The realization you’re going to come again hits you so suddenly it’s almost disorienting, and you ground yourself by meeting his eyes, clutching your fingers again in his hair. You slip your other hand between your bodies to touch at your clit, and it’s all you need to set you off. You watch his mouth drop open, the way his forehead creases, his jaw clenching as he feels you pulse tight around his cock.

“Fuck,” he says again, and drops his face to yours, kissing you and muffling your moans with his own mouth. Absorbing them into his body and echoing the sounds back to you. His hips stutter, off rhythm, and then he thrusts in three long, stiff strokes, body tensing with his orgasm.

He goes heavy when he comes down, unable to keep his body weight off you as his muscles go slack. You are too satiated to mind, and the two of you lie like that for a long moment, boneless, as you catch your breath. Finally, he finds the strength to lift himself off of you, gingerly pulling out, and rolls onto his back next to you. His knuckles brush against your thigh in a mindless back and forth, and the small point of connection makes you smile, content.

Eventually, he sits up and swings his legs off the side of the bed. You watch his back, admiring the view. A moment later he discards the condom in your wastebasket and his hands move down to his jeans, still gathered at his thighs. You think he’s going to pull them up, get dressed—your mouth twists a little sadly at the thought, wondering if he’ll leave and go home—but instead he pushes them off entirely and stands up, unselfconsciously naked. He turns back to you and studies your face for a moment, so you give him a smile and he bends down for a sweet kiss before moving to the doorway.

“You stay there, I’ll be right back.”

After he disappears around the corner you get up to use the ensuite, relishing the ache of rarely used muscles in your shaky legs. When you get back the room is still empty and you consider wandering to find him, but it’s already fallen dark outside and your bed looks too inviting. You wait, lounging against the headboard, wondering at the occasional clattering sounds from the kitchen.

Eventually he reappears in the doorway, looking pleased with himself. He’s carrying two glasses of water and an ice pack you vaguely recognize from the back of your freezer. Coming to the bed, he sets down one glass and hands you the other, then carefully deposits the ice pack directly onto your left knee. “I could only find one pack,” he says, half apologetic and half judgmental, you think. Like he privately thinks you’re not a very good Girl Scout, not having more ice on hand. “I would’ve grabbed some frozen peas but I wasn’t sure you’d appreciate it.”

You shake your head, a little exasperated but mostly pleased at his careful attention. “I’m really fine,” you tell him again.

“Yeah, well.” He climbs into the bed and rests his head on your hip, slinging one arm over your lap and settling in like he’s got no plans to get up. “Indulge me,” he murmurs. You sip your water and rest your hand on his hair, slipping your fingers through the locks to give him a gentle massage that makes him sigh and nestle in closer.

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he says. He sounds on the verge of it. “When I opened your freezer I realized I was starving so I put a pizza in the oven.”

You’re hungry, too, now that he mentions it, and you’re content to sit and listen for the ding of the oven timer. He does fall asleep, face pressed comfortably against you, and you let your knee go numb rather than shift him to move the ice pack to the other side. There’ll be plenty of time for recuperation, anyway, you think. You’re already making plans to call in sick on Monday. Now that you know what his skin tastes like you’re bound to spend the day distracted.


End file.
